please, to honor our dearly departed
dinner, this slick pink mess which was once
a chicken. Let us honor what skill was lost
with granny, who could clean and cleave
the whole bird, could butcher with the best.
And let us mourn the passing of that word’s meaning:
the fumbled punchline, the aria off-key, these
insult the butcher, who, prophet-like, can part
the fascial sheath, the silver skin like ribbon;
divine invisible lines of Hereford, of Sea Bass,
culling shapes, naming—the loin,
the sirloin flap, the clod heart. Can pop
the socket, peel the keel, avoid the coracoid—
oh priest! Approach the infinite!
Divide, divide, divide!
You are never left with nothing.
